


Flat despair, our final hope

by undercat



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elwing's cultural heritage, Gen, Why the people of Sirion kept the Silmaril, heroic despair, the Third Kinslaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 23:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16355987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undercat/pseuds/undercat
Summary: The Oath awakens, the people of Sirion make their choice, and Elwing casts herself into the sea.





	Flat despair, our final hope

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to [Kaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz/) for their beta and excellent thoughts.

Elwing had known in her heart this day might come, yet she still felt a dull surprise. She dropped Maedhros's letter on her desk, had the Feanorian emissary shown to a guarded guest-room, and asked Borophor to summon the council.

She knew what her father had done; she wondered what he had thought.

Had Dior felt the fury that now sat in her breast? How _dare_ they: to demand that which they attempted to kill her grandparents for, that which they did kill her parents for, slaughtered her brothers for. Elwing thought she had known anger, but she had not, not like this: there was a storm inside of her, and it raged.

(Had her father felt the choking terror that now sat in Elwing's throat?)

The Haven's councillors came quickly: Angchir and Thrangwael of Doriath, Egalmoth of Gondolin, Guilin of Nargothrond, Aerdis the wisewoman, Calenril the singer, Borophor her loyal guard, Hathol of conquered Dor Lómin.

Before they arrived, Elwing had gone to her chambers and brought forth the Silmaril, shining with a light that could be seen nowhere else. It was so very beautiful, brilliant with the echo of the Trees she had heard tales of.

(Thingol had seen the Trees; it was said their light had been in his eyes. But she had only seen the Silmaril, the heirloom of her family.)

Elwing had earlier drunk some of the liquor that Balar made, distilled from potatoes; it was foul, but the burn in her throat had warmed her chill body and cooled her fiery rage. Her mind was as clear as it could be, and she cast the Silmaril on the table and read aloud the Feanorian missive, proud with demands, to the group. Shouts erupted from some, and others sat in silence. In the corner, Pengolodh scribbled on a piece of papyrus.

“They dare ask!” Angchir was furious as she had never seen him. “They killed my lord, your kingly father, slaughtered babes, and yet they have no shame. Pathetic beggars and dispossessed though they be, they still ask, they still threaten! _Accursed;_ I _curse_ them _.”_

“As far as I am concerned, if they want a Silmaril they can cut it out of Morgoth's crown,” said Elwing tartly. “It has been done before, and if Maedhros loses another hand, he cannot lift a sword to slay an elf again. I am not inclined to accede to their demands, but neither can we sit and do nothing.”

She set her hands on the table. “So I ask: what shall we do?”

Egalmoth snorted. “Sharpen our swords and have the smiths make arrowheads.” He had lost kin on the Helkaraxe, Elwing recalled, and noted that Guilin sent him a sharp look.

Angchir frowned, his anger now contained. “Not that I disagree with Egalmoth,” he said, “but it's not all we need to do. Playing for time may be our best option. Maedhros Feanorian sent a dispatch to Dior before his forces attacked – we thought it an empty threat, as he had not assaulted Lúthien or Thingol, and our King sent no answer. But if we send a reply, they might delay for further diplomacy. And, well, they are said to live in more dangerous territory than we do... Other events might intervene.”

“If they wait till Earendil returns,” said Guilin, “perhaps they will parlay instead. He is their kinsman, and they knew his mother and grandfather: they may not want to attack anyone they see as family.”

“They knew his grandmother,” Egalmoth muttered. “It didn't save Elenwe.”

“I crossed the Ice too, Egalmoth,” said Guilin, wearily, “and I've seen enough of death since then, and enough of Oaths. Lady, I will abide by your decision, and the council's, but I say we give it to them. With demands, of course: protection, allegiance - put them on trial if you will.”

Guilin was Amanyarin. He had known the Feanorians, and Finrod Felagund too, he who had sworn an Oath to her ancestor Barahir. Elwing could think of few not bound by an oath themselves who would know more.

Elwing asked Guilin what the exact words were, and when he told her she asked, “Is there a way to twist their Oath around? The words say _Feanor's kin_ – Earendil should qualify, no? Or Gil-Galad. If we tell them the Silmaril is Earendil's, perhaps it will placate their Oath.”

It wasn't her husband's, of course; it was Lúthien and Beren's, and her father's, and now hers. But Elwing could lie if need be.

Guilin sunk into thought for a moment, head tilted. “I could not truly say. Maedhros is deliberate and often cautious – or he was once, at any rate. But Oaths have a will of their own, or perhaps their swearers believe them to have a will.” He shrugged. “I don't _think_ it would satisfy the Feanorians, but it might delay them. Or it might not - I don't know.”

“Guilin may have a point,” Thrangwael said, “though it pains me to say. They murdered King Dior, yes. They attacked Doriath, and slew my kin and yours. But... they _are_ driven by an Oath. All evidence points to them attacking us, even if we can delay them. What does keeping the Silmaril gain us, save pride?”

Aerdis made a sharp sound and an arcane gesture with her hand. “It gains us everything: it is life to the Havens. Upstream the Sirion is fouled by Bauglir's touch, but here at the delta it runs sweet. Women bear children with ease under its light and I have never seen babes so strong. Livestock does not sicken. Beleriand is polluted by Morgoth: the very land itself dies under his touch, and everything that lives there dies too. How will we survive without the Silmaril? It is our luck, our blessing. We need it.”

Aerdis was wise. Elwing wondered if her father had refused for the same reason.

But Thrangwael disagreed. “I have not your wisdom, lady Aerdis, but Doriath received no such blessings from the jewel. Your kindred have not before lived in close contact with mine, but it is our singers that keep our plants healthy, and Ulmo favors Tuor and his House: the cleansing power of his waters keeps Sirion from falling under Morgoth's spells.”

“The Silmaril may or may not protect our land,” said Calenril, “but I do not know what else protects our ships.” She looked around the room. “Turgon sent forth many ships to seek for aid: all were lost. None of ours have been: they return home safely with all their crew. Perhaps the Valar covet it as their kinsman Morgoth does. Our sailors need it, if they are to gain Aman and plead for aid. And without the hope of the West... well, without that there is no hope at all.”

 _Earendil is at sea,_ Elwing thought. _He seeks for aid, though the Valar kill all who approach their guarded realm. It keeps_ him _safe_. She wanted to cry. She must not, not till she was alone.

“For those who wish to leave, I have no doubt that Círdan and Gil-Galad will give shelter,” continued Calenril. “Food might be sparce on Balar, at least till our harvest comes in, but if they send troops here it will diminish Balar's supplies but not deplete them.”

Elwing stared at the table. “I will have no one stay who does not wish to,” she said dully, “and I will not have any speak ill of those who leave.” She would send her own sons there, she decided, loathe though she be to part them from her, as soon as she make suitable arrangements with Círdan. She wouldn't leave herself, though; she would stay here, and with the Silmaril. Her people wanted it here, and Balar could not support the entire population of Sirion, not without the crops they sent to the island.

There was a moment of heavy silence, and Egalmoth broke it. The light from the window caught at the rainbow of gems on his ears and throat, braided into his hair: rubies and sapphires and peridots and topaz. Their colorful refraction of light contrasted sharply with the set of his face, for once not cheerful but sober.

“If we are to play for time – and I agree it best - we do need to send a reply. As Guilin says, Earendil is their kinsman, the grandson of Turgon. Write that we cannot make a decision in his absence. Write even that we invite a Feanorian envoy to plead their case before Lord Earendil. It will give us time to prepare for their attack – and yes, Guilin, I think it will come. But if Gil-Galad sends what troops he and Círdan can spare, if we lay traps in the surrounding lands and sing illusions throughout the marshes, I think it likely we will prevail in a battle. Like _some_ of us here, Maedhros fought in the Nirnaeth: his forces are a shadow of a shadow of their former strength and he has no allies left.”

Hathol shrugged. “Do so or do not do so; we Edain will be dragged into battle regardless. But the Havens took in my people. If this Maedhros doesn't attack, Morgoth will. I'll fight either if I must, die if I must, and not surrender. I say we forget this dithering and fortify the city.” It was the only thing he had said so far, aside from a murmur of agreement at Aerdis's words; he was a taciturn man. Elwing doubted he would speak again until they turned to military matters.

She was not surprised by Hathol's words – he came from the same stock as Hador, hero and elf-friend, and the Edain had never quailed to face battle. ( _May I have the courage of the Edain_ , she thought. _Give me the courage of Barahir and Emeldir, of Lúthien and Beren, all the courage of my forebearers._ )

“Yes,” said Angchir, “let us prepare.” He winced a little then. “As your father, my Queen, did not.”

Elwing's father had refused the Feanorians. What had been in his mind and in his heart, and in her mother's? She wished she knew.

But she knew her own mind and her own heart. If it placed her in danger of death, so be it. None of her mighty forebearers had feared death.

“I shall not surrender the heirloom of my house, the hope of the Havens, to a pack of murderers,” Elwing said. “But if they do attack, I will not be the only victim. Let us vote.”

She already knew the majority would side with her, but even Guilin and Thrangwael cast their vote in favor of keeping the jewel.

Elwing drew in a deep breath. “Then we are decided: I will not give up the Silmaril; _we_ will not give up the Silmaril. We shall tell the Feanorians that we cannot decide without Lord Earendil. Stars willing, they will wait till he returns. But now let us talk of preparations.”

 

~~~

 

So Elwing sent a reply back with the Feanorian envoy, and hoped. And less than a week later, Sirion was attacked. They must have marched even before their messenger returned to them.

 _Too soon, they had come too soon!_ She had thought they would have more _time._

There were shouts in the distance. Elros and Elrond were staring at the light of flaming arrows, the houses and grasses set ablaze. _Don't look,_ she thought to them, _don't listen._ But how could they not?

Still, they were with her, and so was Borophor. That at least was in their favor; she could see them off, and to safety, if fate be kind.

Elwing turned to Borophor. “Can you get my sons to that cave by the Faullorn? There is a hidden room where you can wait till Círdan's forces arrive.” Círdan would come, she knew. She hoped he would be in time to save her boys. (She knew he would not be in time to save her.)

“I will, Lady,” he said, “or I will die in the trying.”

She clasped his hand tightly, sent her gratitude and hope to his mind, and knelt down. Elrond was weeping quietly, Elros very still.

“I love you,” Elwing said, “and your father loves you. Remember that. All will be well, I promise. But you must go with Borophor and do what he says. You must be brave, just for a little while.”

She took them in her arms, and kissed each of them. Elros buried his face in her breast; Elrond clung to her neck. When she forced herself to stand up, her heart broke, but there was cold steel in her stomach.

“Go now,” she said. “I love you.” And she watched them run away.

(Barahir must have felt this way, she thought, when he died knowing his son was alone and in the midst of enemies.)

Elwing turned, and ran herself, towards the Haven's great tower, where she lived, where the Silmaril was kept. The Feanorians would follow her; she had to reach the jewel first.

The tower was tall. It overlooked the deepest part of the delta, where the mighty Sirion met the sea: anything cast off it would be swept into the ocean, for there were strong currents there, and the tide was going out.

(Nienor had jumped from a great height.)

 

~~~

 

At the heart of the town, the point where it spread out, branching from the rocky overcrop into the low marshes, sat the buildings first erected. Her tower was made of stone, to better withstand the storms, but many others were still of wood, even here, and a block over she saw roofs aflame. Closer still was the clash of swords and spears, the shouts and screams of battle.

Elwing stood, stunned into a stupor. She had never before...

She saw a mortal man take an arrow in his eye, with a splash of blood and bone. (She had known his _name_ ; why could she not recall it now, _now,_ when she must remember him to eternity?)

She heard a woman scream when another opened her stomach; Elwing could see her guts spill out like ropes, red and white over her clutching arm. (Had her own mother died thus?)

But there was a shout from a man with an eight-pointed star on his breast. He pointed at her and another man turned – she saw it was Angchir. He sent an urgent, wordless command to her mind: _go-run-hide-leave_. It broke her trance, and Elwing turned sharply, hair whipping in her face and eyes. It fell down her back in many small braids; she wished she had pinned it up that morning. But her feet knew the path, and she found her way up the sloped steps that led to her tower and through the door.

One of the men fighting with Angchir broke off and followed her – by the turn of his mind as he urged her forward she knew him to be Thrangwael. He twisted about, once, twice, as he ran beside her, letting fly an arrow. Elwing didn't see who they hit, and found she would rather not know.

They reached the entrance hall. It was dark – someone had pulled the storm shutters over the windows. It was empty too, and she hoped that those who had been here were fled to safer places. She herself, and Thrangwael, ran to her chambers.

Elwing kept the Silmaril in her rooms. She brought it out often: at festivals, at the births of mortal children or at the bedsides of their aged, at plantings and harvests; she wore it to welcome Sirion's ships home and to bless them at their leaving. She held it aloft when she saw Vingilot in the distance, a guide, an assurance to her husband that all was well. It was kept in a locked cabinet; she sung the door open and reached for the gem. She didn't pause to stare at its brilliance, but instead clasped the necklace in which it was set around her throat.

Aranrúth, the sword of her kingly forebearer Thingol, hung in the same cabinet. Elwing dithered for a moment, but did not reach for it. It stung her pride to leave it – would the Kinslayers take it as a trophy? - but she was as likely to cut herself as an opponent, and it might tangle her legs to keep it at her side.

(Nimloth her mother had wielded a spear; she had killed her enemies and died herself. Emeldir the Man-hearted had wielded a sword, and lived. But Elwing was not them, and she did not know how to fight.)

Thrangwael had been keeping guard at the door; when she turned to leave he pulled her behind him and threw his coat around her shoulders to cover the Silmaril. _Stay close_ , he thought to her. They walked quickly through the halls – she realized he was leading her to the back entrance which would take them to the docks. She wondered if that were the best way; she wondered if she should protest.

But she didn't need to decide, for when they reached the door it was already open and several people were pouring through. There was a glow in the leader's eyes – _lachenn_ , she thought. Thrangwael raised his sword and pushed her away, rough; she nearly fell.

Someone was shouting, and though Elwing knew the words, she could not make out the meaning – why was her head so hazy, her eyes so dim?

Then there was a clash of metal; she heard Thrangwael utter a pained moan; his breath sounded like one who was choking on water, and then it stopped. Elwing skittered away; her heart pounded; sound roared in her ear. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another body fall, and when someone grabbed her arm, she went still with fright. But she looked, and saw it was Angchir. His sword was drawn, and bloody – she stared at the dark wetness, for a moment transfixed.

“This way,” he said. His voice was hoarse, as if he had been shouting, and he led her to the stairs that went up to the rooftop or down to the basement. She tripped, and he held her up.

“We'll be safer in the basement. We might hold out a bit, till Círdan arrives, and I know a bit of Song, enough to confuse those who look for you.” He gripped her tighter, protective.

“Enough to confuse Maglor the Mighty?”

He made a rueful face in response.

She paused at the foot of the steps and touched the Silmaril around her neck, more brilliant than the sun and other stars. It had brought only death, and death would come to those that followed it, followed her.

“You needn't follow,” she said to Angchir.

He shook his head. “I took you out of Doriath. How can I not follow?”

There was a queer feeling in her chest, and her face was wet. She nodded at him, throat too tight to speak, and they ran up the stairs.

Elwing and Angchir gained the roof. But there were shouts behind them: they had been followed. She turned, and stared, frozen. Two men, one with red hair, the other with black. The light of Aman was in their eyes, and she knew who they must be.

Maglor's sword took Angchir in the neck, and he fell to the floor in blood, dead. Elwing shrieked, hand at her throat, and backed up.

Maedhros lowered his sword, and so did Maglor.

“Lady-”

“No!” Elwing cried. “No, stay back!” _How has it come to this?_ But she knew how it had, and she knew what she must do: her mind was now clear.

There was an overlook that faced the Sea, where she watched for Earendil's coming. Elwing ran towards it and stopped at the ledge, the Silmaril at her breast. She clutched it in her hand, the last light of the dead Trees, and turned her head to look at them.

“ _Stop,_ ” said Maglor the mighty singer, stretching out a trembling hand. There was a great power in his voice. Another might have been compelled by his words, for Song was in them, but Elwing was of the line of Lúthien, she who had not quailed to face Morgoth Bauglir, she who had made Fate himself bend to her will.

“Lady,” said Maedhros Feanorion. There was a pathetic, yearning desperation in his voice. “Lady, please. We will let you live; you needn't do this.” He wanted to mean it, she thought; he wished for it to be true.

Elwing looked instead to the sea. It was so lovely, bright blue and aflame with the sun's light. Perhaps even now Vingilot was sailing towards her. She wanted to see her husband. She did not want to die.

She thought of his Oath. She knew it: it was now bitter in her heart. _Whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth or afar casteth a Silmaril ... This swear we all: Death we will deal them._ He could not let her live, no matter what words he said to her, for he had said other Words, and they were binding.

She thought: _I will die this day, by his hand or mine._

She thought: _I can deny my enemy victory._

She thought of Elros and Elrond, and she thought of her murdered brothers. Death had the Feanorians dealt even to children. She had sent her boys away, with loyal Borophor, but if, _if!_... They said that in the West the dead returned to life: she hoped with all her heart that she would see them again, that they would forgive her for not being able to protect them.

She thought of her father Dior and her mother Nimloth. Perhaps they might meet again in death.

She thought of Húrin and Huor, who had fought a hopeless fight; and she thought of Nienor, who had thrown herself into the water rather than submit to what the dragon's curse had wrought; and Aerin, who had burnt with her oppressors in the fire she herself had set.

She thought of Morwen Eledhwen, her kinswoman, who was not conquered.

She jumped.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have edited this (very slightly) since posting: I made a canonical error regarding the Second Kinslaying: in the Silmarillion the Feanorians sent only one message to Dior, and it wasn't returned. I changed one of Angchir's lines to reflect this.
> 
> The text of the Oath is altered: the original reads  _Death we will deal him_. However, it would have been said in Quenya, which does not distinguish between male and female genders in its pronoun system (it has a living/non-living distinction instead), so there aren't separate words for  _she/her/hers_  and  _he/him/his_. In Quenya, the sentence would be  _Death will we deal him/her/(singular) them_. I changed it in hopes of making it clearer that the Oath applies to all people regardless of gender.


End file.
